


There's No Manual For Love

by Eye_In_The_Sky



Series: There's No Manual For Love [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masks, Robin - Freeform, Superboy - Freeform, Young Love, rooftop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eye_In_The_Sky/pseuds/Eye_In_The_Sky
Summary: After the defeat of a particularly unsettling villain, Damian questions how much of the truth he’s really telling himself.Or, the four steps to an ex-assassin loving an alien golden boy.





	There's No Manual For Love

**Author's Note:**

> First story. Inspired from reading the comics. Kinda good, sorta cringey? Either way, enjoy.

**_— Step One: Fight —_ **

Damian curses the doctor.

Or, more accurately, he curses the incredibly irritating villain who goes by the name of Dr. Sivana. The name is, Damian thinks, incredibly stupid, considering it is _literally_ his last name and gave away his identity, which therefore got them more dirt on the man himself.

For a genius, his name-picking abilities were about as good as Jon’s skill to not be annoying — meaning nonexistent.

He thinks as much as he and Jon perch themselves on a rooftop overlooking their handiwork: the MDP forcing a struggling psychotic genius into a straightjacket, a white van that would roll him over to Arkham Asylum waiting a city over. Ambulance alarms beeping, cameras flashing, and everything else that was necessary to complete the dramatic takedown of a villain already in place.

Damian steps away from the edge, facing the looming buildings in front of him. The sky is a haze of orange and pink, the setting sun just visible over the horizon.

Jon groans. He’s hurt. Well, technically, they both are. But Jon was exposed to a piece of kryptonite that weakened him. For a moment, Damian considers helping him home. Then he remembers his homework, and brushes away the thought. He has to finish. Besides, Jon is the _Boy of Steel._ He can take care of himself.

“That was a pretty good job,” Jon says.

_Pretty good job._ Yes, that could sum it up. After all, they had found the doctor’s base of operations, thwarted his plan to distribute sleep-paralysis-inducing drugs to Star City, and gotten out alive. Feeling optimistic, Damian has to count that as a win. Even if they hadn’t gotten out of him who he’d been working with 

“I have to get back,” he mutters. “There’s a homework assignment I have to do.”

Not waiting to see what Jon will respond with, he lifts his hand with his grappling gun, aims, and is stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“Robin,” Jon ventures, “you know he wasn’t right, right?”

Damian shakes his hand off, grimacing. “Yes, Superboy. I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

Damian turns, hands clenched into fists, feeling his eyes blaze. _Nottruenottruenottruenot_ — “It’s none of your business. You’re not my mom. Goodnight, Jon.”

The last word comes out forceful, and Damian realizes his mistake a moment too late. He’s called Jon by his name. He _never_ does that. It’s always _Kent, Tighty-whities,_ or _Superboy._ But just like he never calls Bruce _dad,_ he never calls Jon _Jon._

Damian’s throat closes up. “I have to go —”

Jon grips his arm so tight it actually _hurts_ . Damian doesn’t register what he’s about to _do:_ he only feels his assassin training kick in, and suddenly Superboy is on the floor in front of him, the breath knocked from him as he clutches his wrist.

He nearly chokes at the sight.

Reasonably, he knows the fall didn’t hurt Jon physically. But it did hurt him emotionally. And that’s _worse,_ because it puts this feeling in him that Damian didn’t know he had; like someone just dumped a bucketful of mercury down his throat and it’s bubbling in his stomach, sucking out all feeling with its poison.

Damian falls to his knees, eyes wide. He helps Jon sit up, a hand on his back while the other hangs loosely by his side, as if not quite sure what else to do. “Oh god, I’m sorry, Superboy, I didn’t —”

“Damian.”

“It’s _Robin,_ ” he snaps, and it’s only around five seconds later he notices Jon staring at him. It’s not an angry glare, like _why did you just flip me onto a cement rooftop,_ or a disgusted one. It’s just . . . calculating. And, to some extent, that smothering concern Damian can’t stand.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he snarls, yanking his hand back.

Jon straightens up, a completely oblivious look on his face. The setting sun behind him, the wind tugging at his shiny dark curls . . . for a moment, Damian can pretend he’s out with a friend, just enjoying Jon’s company. Then the situation hits him, and he’s dragged back into the present time.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m . . . _sad,_ or whatever. I don’t need pity.” He stands up, ready to just shoot his grapple gun and swing off, when Jon’s words make him freeze.

“But you need help,” Jon says quietly.

For a long moment, neither of them move.

Damian’s not sure exactly how to answer that. _It’s not true,_ he tells himself. It _shouldn’t_ be. Because Damian is a weapon, a weapon Talia Al Ghul forged, a weapon she used to train. And sure, maybe his father helped him realize that he was human as well. But it was that _as well_ part that stung him. As much as he might’ve wanted to, a piece of him would always be a cold-blooded killer.

There was no changing that.

No denying it.

Behind him, he senses Jon stand up. “What Sivana said, it wasn’t true. You _have_ to know that.”

“I do,” is the only reply that won’t make his brain short-circuit. So he says it.

Something in him clicks. It’s like a black hole, sucking the power from him. All of a sudden, he feels so _exhausted_ , like he could collapse then and there. He feels his knees buckle. But _no._ That can’t happen. He’s Robin, son of Batman, not a hormonal teenager ready to have a nervous breakdown in front of his . . . _best friend._

So instead he turns to face Jon, because it’s a well known fact that the only way to solve your problems is by facing them. Or maybe that’s to face your fears _,_ but Damian can’t remember. His brain is too busy with contradictory thoughts of _stay and tell him_ and _run._

“I’m . . . fine.”

“I know you’re not.” Jon’s answer is so simple, just four little words strung together, but the way he says it, with emotional concern for him, it sparks this _thing_ in Damian. It almost makes him feel _calm_ . He knows what it is. Or what it’s called, at least: appreciation. That Jon _does_ care, no matter how much Damian and Robin both try to push him away.

But sentimentality is a luxury Damian can’t afford in his line of work. He’s not quite sure how Jon does it. And this is a risk he’s not willing to take.

“Goodbye, Superboy,” he says shortly. Then he’s in the air, the wind whooshing into his face like a blowtorch, and the only thing Damian can think about as he slips through his bedroom window twenty minutes later is that look on Jon’s face.

He doesn’t know whether to punch something or break down.

So he does neither.

And sleep doesn't get to him all night.

 

**_— Step Two: Pretend it didn’t happen —_ **

The next day, he’s sitting in Chemistry trying to finish his French homework assigned last _week._ When he registers exactly what it is he’s _doing_ , that’s he knows something’s wrong. He’s never missed a deadline. In fact, he always left any assignments on the respective teacher’s desks at _least_ two days before. And this is due next class.

At least he has the break to finish it, but that doesn’t make it any better.

He knows for certain this is Superboy’s fault. No, actually, not Superboy. Jon. The two have been crime-fighting for four years now, and the thought process of developing a relationship that was more than just _acquaintances_ took a long time to sink in.

Damian isn’t supposed to have friends. He goes to school to blend in, not stand out. With his supposed _goody two shoes_ attitude, this made the goal hard to accomplish. But on the plus side, it’s _because_ of this nobody talks to him. Nobody wants to be seen with the nerd.

Still, there’s a longing in him . . . one that searches for a kindred soul. It’s dramatic as hell, he thinks. But living with father has made him long for another sort of companionship. The sort that resulted in _friends._

Jon is the closest he has to that. At least, he _was._ Because now he’s feeling something he’s fairly sure he isn’t supposed to.

Attraction.

To . . . Superboy.

He’s fourteen. They both are. So it shouldn’t scare him, right? Which is exactly why Damian is confused as to why the thought of beating up a criminal sends adrenaline pumping through his veins, but having _something_ with Jon makes his face go red, and his stomach feel like that cheap Drugstore pudding Dick loves.

He feels sick as he stares down at the white sheet. The answers are scribbled on, a chicken scratch compared to his usual neat cursive. He’s halfway through. He should be done.

“Class!”

 Mister Avila says something about a worksheet, but Damian only gets _work in pairs._

Somehow, inexplicably, he catches Jon’s eye from across the all-too colourful room. They stare at each other. Then Jon picks up his binder and begins to walk towards him, eyes fierce, determined. It reminds Damian of a lion honing in on its prey before it attacks.

But halfway through, his heart crawls into his throat, because a girl has just tapped Jon on the shoulder and although Damian can’t hear them, he knows she’s just asked if he has a partner.

Jon returns the smile — and shrugs her off.

There’s no hiding the ex-assassin’s surprise.

“Hey,” Jon says, bravado faltering as he approaches. He shifts his weight, now seemingly unsure if coming to Damian was a good idea.

Damian manages to choke out a lame, _Hi_ in response.

“Anyone sitting here?”

A shake of the head is all the answer he needs. Jon slides the Chemistry worksheet over, apparently already having gone for it, and Damian feels electric shock where their hands accidentally touch.

Neither of them know what to say. So Damian clears his throat and forces his head to focus on the chemical equations that lay in front of him, not how his heart is beating faster than a hurricane.

“So this —” he points to the first part, “— is hydrocarbon and oxygen. They’re equal to carbon dioxide and —”

“Are you really going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”

“Yes,” Damian says without thinking, and immediately regrets it. He sees Jon’s blue eyes cloud with pain as he looks away, a steel wall going up around him. Damian swallows. A lump of guilt has lodged himself in his throat, and it can’t be moved. “Jon —”

“Just forget it,” Jon mutteres, hunching over the desk and ripping the worksheet out of Damian’s hands. He starts to scribble away with his favourite pencil — a blue and black one covered with tiny little Superman and Batman symbols — but now the only thing Damian hears is his heartbeat accelerating, and it’s clearly bothering Jon, who keeps wincing and clenching his pencil so tight it’s about to break.

His mother and father both taught him to never run from a fight. Unfortunately, this isn’t a fight anymore. It’s just a battle lost.

Damian yanks up his backpack and runs from the room, ignoring the teacher’s shouts and his classmate’s jealous groans.  

Jon doesn’t follow.

 

**_— Step Three: Procrastinate —_ **

If there’s one thing Damian is an expert at, it’s not being found by people who want to find him.

It’s how he finds himself in Jason’s safehouse; an underground bunker in downtown Star City Batman himself was never told existed but probably knows anyways.

Jason’s not there. He’s somewhere in Tokyo supposedly tracking down a drug dealer but most likely smooching his face off with a bar waitress while Roy waits impatiently outside their hotel room.

So Damian sits by himself on the rickety sofa, his comm off. He’s reading the full version of _Moby Dick_ by Herman Melville. He knows it’s ridiculous, but he finds himself empathizing with the great whale — feeling cornered and lashing out, hurting someone in the process.

The book was a gift from Alfred for his tenth birthday, and one of the two first birthday presents he ever got. Damian always kept it on his night table, somehow, he thinks, afraid of reading it for how true the story would ring with him and his life.

He takes a break and puts the book down to stare up at a single square of light that filters through the space.

Involuntarily, his mind wanders back to the fight with Dr. Sivana.

_“You can’t stop me,” the man hisses, his white lab coat covered with goat’s blood. The sight of the decapitated animal on the rusted metallic table a few metres behind him nearly makes Damian throw up. The doctor’s face is a mess of insanity and despair. The sort that puts a small discomfort inside of Damian, because mad people are willing to go to great lengths to get what they want to._

_“You’re sick,” Jon slurs next to him, the kryptonite in front of him leaving him leaning against Damian, who’s still struggling with the iron cuffs._

_“I am desperate,” the doctor says. “There’s a difference.”_

_“Not really,” Damian snaps. “Psycho is psycho.”_

_Sivana gazes down at him. “And guilty is guilty, now and forever.”_

_Damian takes around four seconds to clock what the man has just said. Unwillingly, his emotions are expressed on his face as his eyes widen. Sivana notices. He crouches down to level Damian’s gaze, snickering._

_“The hell are you talking about?” Damian growls._

_Sivana shakes his head. “You may be naive, but you are not innocent. I can see the darkness in your past.”_

_Damian’s not worried that the man might know about his secret identity. But he’s met a few villains like Sivana before; the sort that try and get into his head by reading him, somehow knowing the sort of things he’s hiding behind Robin._

_The problem is, this time Jon’s here with him._

_“You don’t know anything about me,” he says. His voice is controlled, but a hint of unshed worry lies beneath it. He has to stay calm._

_“I can tell the difference between many things: like a killer and one pretending to be something else.”_

_Now that,_ that’s _something he doesn’t have an answer to. Next to him, Jon raises an eyebrow sluggishly. When he finally seems to process Sivana’s words, he shakes his head._

_“Don’t . . . believe. You’re not a kill . . .” his eyelids droop. Damian forces himself to work on the cuffs quicker. It’s hard to do it soundlessly, and with Jon’s head lolling onto his shoulder, the process becomes one of trying to not jolt him while still trying to free himself._

They got out, eventually. Locked the kryptonite away as Jon flew them both up to the rooftop and they made a call to the Metropolis Police. Jon tried to convince him Sivana was wrong. But Damian knows better. He can’t ever hope to repent for the people he murdered in cold blood.

Shifting on the sofa, he freezes when he hears a beeping. He turned him comm off . . .

The vibration in his pocket gives him the answer: his phone. Suddenly his blood turns to ice. Is it Jon? What if he wants to talk? Should Damian answer? What if . . . cursing, he digs into the jacket, slipping out the device and looking at the screen.

A breath escapes him.

_Father._

Tapping the green button, Damian braces himself for the yelling. It comes soon enough.

_“Where are you, Damian?”_

He licks his lips. “At the Metropolis Park,” he lies smoothly. “I’m waiting for Jon to arrive.” He prays that his father doesn’t know anything about last night’s conversation with Jon.

_“Jon?”_ His father’s tone seems to be calmer. _“Where are you going?”_

“To see a movie,” Damian responds, a little too quickly.

For a moment, Bruce is quiet. Damian can’t hear any background noise, meaning he’s probably in his office at the Wayne Tower.

_“Have fun,”_ Bruce says at last. Then he hangs up, and Damian can breathe again.

Lord. He _really_ needs to find a way to fix this.

 

**_— Step Four: Give the lamest apology ever —_**  

The next day, at six in the afternoon, Damian’s thumbs skid over his phone screen. He didn’t share any classes with Jon that day, so the only time he sees his partner in crime-fighting is when they briefly caught each other’s gazes during lunch. Then Jon went back to his peanut butter and jelly sandwich as Damian pulled himself once more into the world of Captain Ahab and Moby Dick.

Now he’s sitting in his bedroom, homework done.

And apparently about to send a message to Jon.

His heart flutters as he thinks about seeing Jon again. It’s painful, like a tug on his heartstrings, having the one person he considering a true friend just _not talk_ to him. It’s his fault, Damian knows, but that doesn’t make him feel any better. In fact, probably _worse._

Because he’s the master of procrastination, he hides the keyboard and begins scrolling through their conversations.

 

**_Dec. 22, 2018 - 4: 35 pm_ **

**_Ever been to an amusement park?_ **

_No. It’s childish._

**_What??? No way. Adults go to those things, they’re awesome!_ **

_Your point being?_

**_I’m planning to go to one a day before Christmas and you should come. Promise you’ll have fun._ **

_I don’t do ‘fun’. And I’ve already got something planned for that day._

**_You’re lying._ **

_What?_

**_Go one, name_ ** **one** **_time you had fun with someone._ **

_The day that villain put duct tape on your mouth to shut you up. That was pretty fun._

**_Pleeeaaasssseeeee_ **

_No._

**_With a cherry on top?_ **

_No!_

**_Come on! I don’t have anyone else I can go with._ **

_Who’s lying now? You can go with your parents._

**_I don’t have anyone else I_ ** **want** **_to go with._ **

 

Damian remembers the way his throat closed up when Jon said that. He felt appreciated. Like he had a true friend.

So of course he ended up at the carnival fair, stuffing his face with ungodly amounts of cotton candy and laughing at how Jon’s turn at the claw machine ended up in him getting a single candy bar instead of that stuffed purple alien he wanted. He managed to bribe the boy supervising it, though, with twenty bucks and a bag of M&M’s.

Then Jon had turned to him, pushed the alien into his face, and demanded Damian take it home with him so he’d remember that day.

That stupid purple alien still sat on his bed, with a toothy grin and a single green eye that reminded Damian suspiciously of Mike Wazowski from _Monsters, Inc_.

And then the happy feeling is gone, because he remembers he’s not speaking with Jon, and that feels like a curse much, much worse than any amount of pain NoBody could ever put him through.

Screw it.

He pulls the keyboard back up and before he can change his mind, taps out a message and hits _send_.

_Meet me on the Wayne Tower rooftop in ten._

His hands are shaking.

Damian pulls on his uniform, because if he’s Robin no one will think twice about him swinging to the top of a skyscraper. And . . . maybe because he needs a mask to hide behind when he’ll talk with Jon. Then he leaves a note to Alfred saying he might be home late, and slips out his bedroom window, grappling towards the building.

It feels free, _liberating,_ having the wind rushing into his face and through his hair as he swings his way to the tower. He’s above everyone else, the lights from cars and trucks glowing like tiny embers under him.

Finally he hauls himself on top of the skyscraper, breath caught in his throat.

The setting sun in the distance, glowing a thousand hues of orange, the pink clouds hovering in the sky, and Gotham’s beauty as the sun sets. It’s all here. He’s on top of the world.

And Jon’s here with him.

He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept. Dark bags cover his under eyes, and his usually shiny hair is matted with sweat. Lips are pressed into a thin line. He wears his uniform, like Damian, but it seems to be a deadweight on him, dragging him deeper into this ocean he’s drowning in. That cold mercury-poison feeling tugs at him.

_He’s_ done this to Jon.

Damian takes a step forwards, unsure. Jon’s sitting on the edge, staring at him with those calculating blue eyes. He’s cautious, afraid to get too close for fear of being snapped at again. Which means Damian has to make the first move. He takes a deep breath.

“That night,” he begins, slowly, “what Sivana said. You asked me if —”

“If you knew he was lying,” Jon responds quietly. He never breaks his gaze. “I remember.”

Damian digs his nails into his palms. With gloves, he doesn’t feel much, but it aches enough to keep his eyes from stinging. “And I said yes.”

Jon shifts, and for a second, Damian’s terrified he might fall. But he doesn’t, and even if he had, Jon can _fly._ He could catch himself. Why is he worrying about a nearly invincible boy?

“You were lying.” There’s hurt in Jon’s words. Like he knows he tried but it somehow wasn’t good enough, because Damian pushed and pushed and now Jon’s over the edge, hurtling full-speed down at a floor he can’t yet see. And this time, the only one who can save him is Robin.

“I was.” It’s a shock saying the words, for the first time speaking his emotions. “And I’m sorry.” A lump builds in his throat, Jon’s surprised look doing nothing to ease it. He feels like he’s drowning in thick, gooey mud. “For pushing you away. I know you just want to help.”

“Damian —”

“Sorry for everything I’ve done. I was raised to be a weapon, not a friend. It’s okay if you hate me. I’ve killed innocent people because I thought they were monsters. And the real monster —” he chokes. “— was in me the _whole time_.”

He barely registers that Jon has gotten up, and they’re now only inches away from each other. And Damian can feel those cursed salty tears dripping down his face, but there’s nothing he can do to stop them. Like soda in a bottle. Shake it enough and when you open the lid, it comes bubbling out in a volcanic explosion.

He feels himself shaking. A cry escapes him, of _complete and total loss of hope_ and suddenly he’s leaning into Jon, burying his face in the crook of his neck, whispering over and over again _I’m sorry_ brokenly, wrapping his arms around his neck as Jon’s hands curl around his waist. He feels the soft cotton shirt go wet with his tears, but Jon doesn’t say anything, just pulls him closer.

Damian shudders as Jon tangles his fingers into his black locks, holding him. It feels _nice._

The wind blows into his face, but he and Jon keep each other upright, a lighthouse in the darkness of the stormy sea.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there. But at one moment, Jon pulls away, and his face is as much a mess of tears as Damian’s.

“I don’t hate you,” he whispers, smiling.

A sound escapes Damian, a half laugh and half cry.

“Good to know.”

But suddenly they go serious, and Jon’s hands wrap around Damian’s forearms. “You are _not_ a weapon. Or a monster. Your mother made you think that. But you have your own life now, D. And you have to decide what to do with it and who you want to be.”

He feels himself bloom with happiness. This is Jon, telling him to be free, telling him to be nobody but himself. Because Talia wanted him to be an assassin. His father probably wishes he’ll take up the mantle of Batman someday. Dick and Tim want him to make his own Titans. Jason . . . has never said.

But Jon, Jon believes in him. In a way nobody else ever has.

“I want . . . to keep crime fighting with you. I want to stop thinking like a killer.”

“The first’s a promise,” Jon grins. “I can’t do the not-kill with you. But I’ll be by your side.”

Damian doesn’t know what to say. So he smiles. And Jon does too. They stay silent for a moment, looking at each other. Then Jon clears his throat.

“Show me your eyes.”

Damian’s eyebrows jump. “My eyes?”

“They say your eyes are the window to your soul.”

“That’s dramatic,” he mutters. But he reaches up and takes his mask off nonetheless. The world becomes clearer, more real, and now he can see the way Jon’s own blue orbs shine. Jon steps closer, and Damian’s heart is beating a million miles an hour.

“You’re nervous,” Jon whispers, leaning in. Damian feels heat flood his face.

“I — don’t be ridicul —”

Jon’s kissing him. Damian’s kissing back. It’s not like those cheesy heated kisses from the movies. It’s real, _raw,_ filled with emotion and sparks that make fireworks explode against both their lips. And suddenly it’s over, but it’s more than enough, because Damian’s lips are still tingling and his face is an explosion of unbelievable shock.

The sounds of Gotham fill the emptiness, and then Jon’s embracing him, positions switched as he rests his chin on Damian’s shoulder. Damian hugs back.

“I’m afraid of losing you,” Jon confesses, his tone low. The words send a shiver down Damian’s spine.

“You won’t,” he responds. He can feel Jon shake his head against his shoulder.

“You can’t promise that. Neither can I.”

There’s not much else to do, because Jon’s already squishing the life out of him, even though Damian feels like _he’s_ supposed to be the one protecting Superboy, not the other way around, so he says what he feels is a justified answer, even if it’s the stinging truth.

“Relationships don’t always go so well when you’re a vigilante.”

Surprisingly, Jon doesn’t seem put out by this.

“Look at my mom and dad. Tim and Steph. Dick and Wally. They worked it out.”

For a moment Damian stays silent. Then, “Well, I suppose we can try.”

Jon’s response is muffled, but Damian knows he’s made him laugh. Because yes. They’ll try. Fight hard as hell to make this work.

He looks out over Gotham, Star City, Blüdhaven, Metropolis, and every other town that lies in the distance. The world is a better place because of heroes . . . and he can be a better person because of Jon. He knows he can. There’s no one else he’d rather be with. All those nights sparring on the gym mat, crime-fighting as Robin and Superboy, eating ridiculously over-buttered popcorn as they watched 60’s stop-motion movies, it’s all led to this.

He finally looks away and closes his eyes, resting his chin on Jon’s shoulder and breathing in the fresh air.

Yes.

He could get used to this.

 


End file.
